The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(8)



“We are in the midst of Dahomey,” the kishion said as they stopped to cup water from a small brook with their hands. It was their first water of the day, and both gulped it down eagerly before filling their waterskins. “I do not speak this tongue very well, so you must be the one to talk with the villagers. Say little. Men’s tongues wag when they see something strange, or a pretty face.” He wiped his mouth on his gloved hand. “Even our clothing marks us as foreigners. Try to barter for information. If they prove reluctant, I will make things simpler for us.”

She stared into his eyes. “I do not want to be troublesome to these people. They are innocent.”

“You said you would trust my judgment, my lady. Believe me, in towns like this, they will respond to fear more than they will coins. There is no one here who can face me, not even all of them together. I will not harm them if I do not have to, but we must be quick and to the point. We need the supplies to cross this land into either Paeiz or Mon. A guide if we can persuade him. Otherwise, he will guide us unwillingly.”

“Very well. Let me do my best to convince him first.”

The kishion stood and brushed twigs from his sleeve, gazing back up the trail, and then nodded. Maia knelt and sipped again from the water in her palm. It was cold, clean, and delicious. She sighed, her joints aching from the long journey. Her gown was stained and splitting at the seams, so she fastened her cloak more tightly around her throat and raised the cowl to conceal her face. Daylight dwindled quickly, and they hurried their pace to reach the town before darkness would force them to stumble blindly. Huge pine trees swayed in the stiff winds that whipped her cloak out behind her and threatened to tug loose her cowl.

As they reached the shelter of the trees stationed along the lake, the winds struggled to pierce their clothes. Large boulders hunkered all around, some twice the height of a person. Other boulders rested in the shallows of the lake, and Maia realized that many had cracked off the edge of the mountain and tumbled down.

There were ramshackle stone huts throughout the grove of trees, many of which had small chimneys radiating the smoke they had seen earlier. There were enough fallen trees around them to provide almost an unlimited supply of firewood. Her boots crunched in the gravel and needles as the two maneuvered through the small hamlet without encountering a soul. Voices could be heard emanating from one structure—an inn or tavern of some kind that seemed to be a gathering place for locals. The walls were made of sturdy stone slabs, each cut by nature and not by hand, fastened around the buttress of an enormous boulder as if it had been the ruins of a great castle. It had a timber roof that was in danger of sagging under the weight of dead pine needles.

The kishion nodded toward the structure, and they approached the only door. As the kishion pulled on the iron-ring handle, the door opened, sending out a blast of warm, fragrant air. Maia smiled in spite of herself, very willing to lie down on the dirt floor and sleep right there.

The room was full of mostly men, though there was a handful of hardy-looking women who were lean and weather chafed. Three hearths circled the room, and a skewered stag was roasting on a spit in one of them, the smell of the sizzling meat making Maia’s mouth water.

As they entered, a man approached who was balding and very tall, probably the tallest man she had ever seen. He waved them in and greeted them in a deep bass voice, speaking Dahomeyjan with a slight accent.

“Hail, travelers!” he said with a warm smile. “Some bread and wine? Come and sit by the fire. Emilie!” he boomed. “Rest and I will fetch you some victuals. You look weary.”

“Thank you,” Maia said, trying to match their accent. They seated themselves by the raging flames, and she felt the heat sink into her bones quickly, making her cheeks pink. The tall man was middle-aged and he had a long, lanky stride. A woman—his wife?—piled food on a tray, while the rest of the patrons gazed at them for a long moment before continuing their conversation.

One man’s voice caught Maia’s attention amidst the din of the roaring flames and chuckling voices.

“And what do you expect we found, by Cheshu, with the bear scat? A hand. Bitten off and chewed to bits. Naught but the bones were left. Wander these mountains before the snows, and you are asking to become a meal yourself!”

Maia blinked with startled surprise and turned her gaze. The talker was a barrel-chested man, shorter than her, but wide enough to be two people. A thinning thatch of curly copper hair sat atop his balding head, and a bristly beard that was more brown than copper pointed from his chin like a cone. Beside the wide chair in which he slouched, an enormous pale boarhound rested on the floor, its head resting on its front legs as it stared at her with its big eyes.

What had struck Maia so forcefully was the epithet the man had used along with his accent, which was unmistakably Pry-rian—not at all what she had expected to hear in the hinterlands of Dahomey.

“No, no, no—you have to realize it. I have been walking these mountains for years, and you cannot believe how ignorant people are. Especially the wealthy. Does a blizzard care how much coin is in your purse? I once saw a man blasted by lightning as we walked the trails. He was no farther from me than that tun of wine, close enough to raise the hair on my arms. I jest not! By Cheshu, I had a struggle to keep Argus here from feasting on the corpse. I do not quibble if he has a taste for bear meat, but I would rather he not get a taste for one of us!” He patted the dog’s head and then held his own belly while he laughed, joined in chorus by the others gathered around him.

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